Part 11 (1/2)

”I didn't come cheap,” I said. It wasn't true-but I had to say it.

”I know, I know.” She stopped and looked at me. ”But no matter how hard I try now, I can't make myself believe that you came for the money. No one else would have jumped in to save . . . save that poor man.” She was studying me now, the way someone might study an enigmatic painting. ”Dusky, somehow, you give me the feeling that you care. I never expected that-never, not from some big blond-haired charter-boat captain. But I'm . . . I'm glad. . . .”

Her face was tilted toward mine. It was a face from Gauguin; a dream face draped in a black sheen of hair. I felt myself drifting toward her, wanting her lips, wanting to hold her, wanting to take her as a part of me-to strip away that final reserve which was the mystery of her and discover the woman inside.

Abruptly, she turned her face aside.

”I'd better keep an eye on those . . . those search boats,” she said. Her breathing seemed strangely labored, and as she turned sideways I could see the points of her nipples erect beneath the thin T-s.h.i.+rt.

”Right,” I said. ”Yeah, you better do that.”

”And you'll take care of-”

”Right.”

I went below and quickly lashed the tarp and b.l.o.o.d.y sheet around the body. His face was waxy, peaceful in death. And, as always, I felt that odd sense of loss in the face of death, like a member of some huge fleet who looks out and sees that boats are being quietly abandoned. That seemed to describe death better than anything else. Personalities don't die, they just disappear; abandon their vessels for-for what?

Who the h.e.l.l knows. Or cares.

I pushed back the screen of the overhead port and shoved the body up onto the foredeck.

One of the gunboats had pulled up beside a big shrimp boat three hundred yards downtide. They figured, probably, if he had drowned his body would have drifted in that direction. The soldiers had the boat's searchlight fixed on the faces of the Cuban-Americans aboard the shrimp boat, and they were asking them questions in loud Spanish.

I got all the spare chain I had from the forward locker-about fifty pounds' worth-and took a roll of wire, the side-cuts, and my spare thirty-pound anchor.

Except for my rock anchor, it was all the extra ground tackle I had, and if another squall came blasting across the Straits like the last one . . . well, it would be time to head for deep water and break out the canvas sea anchor.

But I couldn't worry about that now.

Before I climbed out onto the deck, I fished my black watch sweater and wool cap out of my sea bag and pulled them on.

It was no time to be seen.

I tossed the chain over one shoulder, then pulled myself up through the porthole.

Wiring weights to a corpse is not what you call pleasant duty. I hitched the first link firmly to his right ankle, then wrapped the chain around him barber-pole-like, then added more wire at the neck. The wire snugged up with grisly ease. When the chain was in place, I secured the anchor to his stomach.

Staying low, I pulled him across the foredeck. I didn't want to risk making a loud splash. I positioned his head so that it hung off the deck. Bracing my legs as best I could, I got down on my stomach and began to lower him over.

What would the total weight be?

One hundred and seventy pounds plus eighty?

In that area.

One h.e.l.l of a heavy load.

The stripping around the deck cut into my arms and my shoulders creaked with the strain. Hand over hand, I lowered him head first into the black water.

He went down in a swirl of green phosph.o.r.escence, sparkling into the depths, as if he fell through stars.

I looked up. The gunboat was finished with the shrimp boat. It used no running lights. And it was coming our way.

So let them come. What they were looking for was now five fathoms down, already disappearing into the soft mud bottom.

I slid back through the porthole, pulling the screen shut behind me.

The woman was still back on the fighting deck. So I had time to check what I wanted to check.

I pulled off the sweater and cap and stuffed them back into my sea bag. The biographies Norm Fizer had given me were well hidden. I pulled back the indoor-outdoor carpet above the forward bilge. The bilge was dry and empty-except for one spare marine battery. It was the best kind of hiding place-no one wants to mess with fifteen pounds of wet-cell.

But this was no ordinary battery.

Using my Gerber knife, I pried the whole top off it, hearing water slosh in the fake cap compartments. The file was in there; the biography file and more. There was my Randall attack-survival knife, the knife that had saved my life-and taken others-more than once. And beneath that were the seven one-pound blocks of RDX plastic explosives: Cyclonite, the deadliest military-strength explosive available. And that wasn't my only offensive option. I stuck my arm into the bilge and felt the roof of the compartment.

The handmade aluminum arrows were all there, taped in place. They were precision instruments that fitted the Cobra crossbow I had disa.s.sembled and stored innocuously in the engine compartment.

The file was rolled into a tight tube. I slid the rubber bands off and leafed through the pages until I had found what I was looking for. Even without the head wound, it was easy to see that the man who was chained thirty feet beneath Sniper was the same man in the black-and-white glossy photo: Ovillo Gomez, 37. Divorced, 2 dep. (girls 13, 10) living with subject's former spouse Aurora (Abeta) Gomez (which see). Nat. Cit. Aug. 1966, Grad. Yale June '71. PBK, Dean's List, 2Lt. ROTC. Recruited by Organization Sept. '71, 6 Promotions (which see). . . .

It was all straight from the sterile computers at the sterile headquarters in Was.h.i.+ngton, where a man's life, like certain chemicals, can be readily distilled into a few nouns, and where even honors are worthy only of abbreviation.

I wondered if they had a printout on me, and knew, of course, that they did. Empty facts and figures, the biographical skeleton of me. I was surprised to find myself suddenly furious; mad at the facts-and-figures b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in Was.h.i.+ngton; bitter at the truth that I too had become nothing more than a killing p.a.w.n for the ”Organization,” one more name on a list.

In childish protest, I ripped up the photo and short biography of the late Ovillo Gomez. I wouldn't give the computer goons a chance to stamp Killed in Line of Duty across them.

And I hoped that, someday, someone would do the same for me. . . .

Captain Lobo was in a surly mood when his gunboat finally rumbled up beside Sniper.

His fat face glistened with sweat as if hunting down a corpse were the hardest work of all. The snap on his holster was undone, the little Russian revolver ready.

I had gone back out to the aft deck to stand with Androsa and await their arrival. One by one, they were searching boats. And I knew that our time would come.

Almost on queue, the gunboat's searchlight painted us in its stark glare. Androsa s.h.i.+elded her eyes, then looked away.

”Hey,” I said. ”Are you going to be able to handle this?”

”You just take care of yourself, Captain.”

”You're trembling.”

”Only because I'm cold.”

”It might be that outfit you're wearing-not that I don't like it.”

She looked absently at the long T-s.h.i.+rt she wore as a nightgown. ”Oh,” she said. ”I'd forgotten.” She tried briefly to cover herself with her hands, then realized how ridiculous it was. ”The boat's coming-I don't have time to-”

”I've got an old robe I'll lend you.”

By the time I got back up and helped her put on the robe, Lobo's crew was making lines fast to Sniper's cleats. It was the same twosome: Lobo, looking surly; Zapata only grim, like some diseased hawk. But even in Lobo's mood, the expression of amus.e.m.e.nt was pasted onto his face. Only now the grin was more of a sneer.